


hurtin'

by peterspajamas



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Depressed Peter Parker, Depression, Gen, Hugs, Kidnapping, Mutant Rights, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, careful, couldn't help but add him in haha, i mean literally just a lot of Numb, ish, yes - Freeform, yess, yup :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:46:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28094106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterspajamas/pseuds/peterspajamas
Summary: Peter can't summon up the energy to be Spiderman.He can't wait to get back to bed every morning.And, most importantly, he doesn't tell anyone.They find out anyway, after a week long kidnapping.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 15
Kudos: 100
Collections: Irondad Fic Exchange 2020





	hurtin'

**Author's Note:**

> hi!! this is my second gift exchange fic!! (yay!) 
> 
> I think my giftee deleted their ao3, which is disappointing! but hey, Bl_romxnova, if you're out there, this one's for you!!
> 
> I rated it teen and up because of some dark themes it has! in case you didn't look at the tags, Peter is kidnapped by HYDRA, because whump was requested :)  
> and the prompt is that Peter hides his depression, which! hey, I am not going to go into my self projection but you can assume that there is a lot of hiding and running away from feelings. Another thing that might be distressing is that his arms break!! watch out!

The song on the radio is a classic that Peter can’t place. He’s heard it before. More than a couple of times. He frowns, pushing the plastic straw to the side. The soda he’s bought is tasteless, mostly ice. “What is it?” he mutters to himself. 

The thoughts are all fleeting today. Cobwebs- well, spiderwebs. He smiles at his own joke, getting lost in the music all over again. He’s hunched over all alone in a booth built for four, at McDonald’s at eleven o’clock. Again. It’s never not-busy, since it’s in the city that never sleeps, but unless there’s someone out causing trouble, it’s peaceful. 

Well, except for the blaring noise surrounding every part of the city that could shatter glass. He hates it with a passion. Isn’t he Spiderman? Isn’t he supposed to love his own city?    
  


Peter buries himself further into his sweatshirt. It’s Midtown brand. He runs his finger over the straw again. His hands are dry, cracking little flakes of skin gathering around the knuckles and cuticles. No one notices him here. He’s free to waste away at his leisure, and it’s lovely. Utterly perfect. 

“Big Mac and small fries.” Without looking behind him, he can tell who she is. Hear the coins rattle as she sets them on the counter, paying exact change. He hesitates, and grabs another one of his own fries. 

The counter is sticky with the oil they fry in. “You want to make that a combo?” the man at the counter drawls.  _ No _ .

“No.” He can predict it perfectly. She’ll take her stuff and go. He’ll hear her eating it in the car. At midnight, a group of teenagers will move through the drive-thru and the employees will complain about it and Peter will shrink away to the bathroom. Even though they’re out in the streets, he’s afraid they’ll see. 

He knows he should be in the suit. Face whipping through fresh air, smelling slightly of the city, almost running into a falafel cart, toes bouncing off of a wall and taking him up to a roof. He knows that he should be out there. Helping people, keeping them safe. But the iron cage of his heart weighs him down like an anchor and he stays inside, slowly rubbing the skin of his fingertips against a sticky counter, hoping for something world ending.

Well, no- not world ending. Just something big. He raises his head for a split second, eyes searching for a shadow he’d thought he’d seen outside the window, before his forehead slams back down and a few tears ooze out of his eyes, like slime encroaching on his body. Eventually, he raises his head up, blinking black spots away, and stumbles to his feet. He opens the door too fast and too hard, and it shudders slightly when it closes. 

* * *

Peter’s routine next morning switches from wandering the city in his spider-suit to avoiding Mr. Stark. The Avengers parade is on today. It’s a hell-event that no one really likes, but Mr. Stark grins and bears it, since he wants tourists to come to the city, especially after all the damage they’d done years ago in the Chitauri invasion.    
  


A shadow passes overhead and he glances up to it. A bird. He avoids the parade route, which is around ten floats, each of them equally ridiculous, with Tony showboating at the front. He doesn’t belong on there. He’d asked and Mr. Stark had laughed, patting him on the head. He’d told Bruce- Bruce’d laughed too. 

“My dog is missing,” a little girl tells him, marching up to him. Peter frowns. 

“Well, where did you last see him?” His voice cracks but she doesn’t seem to notice. Stupid teenage voice hormones, he thinks, rubbing there. “Do you know what street?” 

The street she points at is  _ on the parade route _ . Peter’s stomach sinks. “I was watching the parade with my Mommy and I lost my dog. My other dad is here, too,’ she tells him, a little giggly. 

Peter doesn’t know what to say to her. He doesn’t really talk to kids a lot. “Okay.” 

“They said they’re going to get me ice cream and then visit my Daddy, who’s in the parade.” 

Peter replies again, repeats himself again. “Okay.” This time, it’s raw like he’s been swallowing glass. They hold hands as they cross the street, at her insistence, and then when they reach the parade route, they stop short. “Where did you last see him?” 

There’s a strange sense of deja vu in him. He’s said the words before, or dreamt them. The crowd is packed and stiflingly hot, loud squeaking balloons and food smells everywhere. “Over there.” She points across the street. “You’re Spiderman, right? My daddy told me about you.”   
  


“All good things, I hope.” He walks around the sidewalks and hopes to find a route where he can cross. There’s really nothing, though. Everyone is to stay on their side and leave room for the incoming floats. 

“He says you’re the greenest hero in the bunch. And your quips suck ass,” she giggles, the bad word too silly to even think about what he hears. 

“Nice,” Peter tells her faintly, seeing a glimpse of fur. His stomach furls out in a sick nausea. “Is that your dog?” 

She peers over the metal fence, glancing up to a towering float. “Yeah! That’s him!” Her excited pulling at his arm jerks him off balance. But apparently she’s not registering the  _ giant _ float looming over the poor animal. Oh  _ no _ .

Peter staggers once before pitching forward in an ungainly leap over the fence, rolling onto the asphalt and diving forward to shelter the dog, hold him in place. Someone screams loudly, pointing at him, and he shudders as the float begins to roll over him. A nylon piece of fabric drags at his back, but then he’s under there, terrified dog in his arms. 

The belly of the beast. Gasoline and oil mix together to make the smell utterly unmistakable. Pipes and huge tires roll past him as he breathes quickly. Too quickly. And the car stops. The truck- parade truck- the vehicle-  _ stops _ . He seems to stop breathing. 

He’s stuck. The space above him is narrow and the dog is shuddering in his arms. “Shh, boy,” he whispers, petting his soft head and turning his face over. The asphalt presses in. Peter’s stomach twists. He’s pathetic. 

Because- because he still feels just numb. There’s no anchor weight holding him down, he’s just an ice cold body floating on the surface. He could die at any moment and he’s too tired to even  _ care _ . A harsh noise emerges from his body and he curls inwards, the dog still in his arms. 

He recognizes the shield and the hammer first, borne of a lifetime of Avengers costumes and lunchboxes, perhaps, when they lift the truck up. Thor is chuckling out, booming out. “Ah, Spiderman, I suppose that you were feeling left out! Not allowed in the parade so you will make a scene anyway!” he shouts. 

Peter can hear him, huddled under the truck, and so can just about a thousand other people on the other side of the fence. Peter’s head drops back and he’s ready to play dead, to embrace the numb, before he sees Tony. 

Still in red and gold armor, he dives forward, helping Peter up with the dog and leading him out. “Oh my God,’ he’s saying, “That must have been awful,” and he’s saying, “Here, follow me, we’ll get Cassie her dog,” and Peter is faking a smile like his life depends on it. 

A wave of understanding and real life crashes over him again. “Yeah, anything for you. Cassie, right?” The dog runs towards her. 

“MO! Thank you so much!” she squeals, smiling.    
  


“I’m glad I could help save him!” Peter replies, giving the dog one more fond pat on the head. 

“You know, if you wanted to be included in the parade that badly, you could have asked,” Bruce tells him mildly. His plastered smile falters and drops. He’s in the suit anyway. 

Tony wraps a cold arm around his shoulders and on his other side, Bruce checks his pulse. The rumor is going to spread like wildfire. He glances up. 

Just in time to see the float rock wildly, and the top fall off. 

  
  


* * *

_ Spiderman Crashes Avengers Parade _

_ Spiderman Acts Out in Bid for Attention _

_ Dangerous Mutant Destroying the City: Rampaging through Avengers Parade _

Peter sways in place, eyes darting away from the loudmouth preaching against vigilanteism on the steps of the museum. He had been kicked out five minutes ago. For being a disturbance. Just his luck. 

It had been Flash anyway. Peter didn’t care really all that much, settling on the cold steps, rubbing his hands on his legs to try and warm them up. Frigid, freezing cold. His teacher had told him to sit here,  _ don’t move, Parker _ , he had been warned, so he wasn’t going to get up. The newsstand four feet away, coupled with the woman on the steps makes him anxious. Every four words out of her mouth are Spiderman. He keeps suppressing the urge to look up at his own name. 

Slowly, he coughs into his elbow, sniffling. His throat is extra dry, cold and allergies, and even worse than that is the panic and adrenaline seizing at his heart. It jabbers away in his ribcage until he stands up, leaning against the wall. 

“He’s a menace to the city!” she cries, suddenly extra loud. Peter, out of the corner of his eye, spots two more people joining her, a trio emerging from a cab. They’re attracting more attention, disgruntled passerby and the kinds of people who think Peter’s not a menace to the city. (They’re few and far between.) 

“ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, SPIDERMAN HAS GOT TO GO!” he chants. That- it barely even rhymes.

“ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR!” the woman repeats, loudly and from a deep, raw place in her throat, Peter is not feeling  _ good  _ about this. 

“SPIDERMAN HAS GOT TO GO!” 

“ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR!”

More people join in. A pair of teenage boys nudging each other; they think it’s funny. And the more genuine, too. “SPIDERMAN HAS GOT TO GO!” 

Peter blinks. A hot tear is caught. In his eyelash. “ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR!”

“SPIDERMAN HAS GOT TO GO!” He turns towards the wall,  _ Spider-man,  _ as if he’s anyone special, God, and stays there, looking at the stone. 

They cycle through a few more chants in the meantime.  _ He’s a menace to our city! Plague on our soc-i-ety!  _ With a high E at the end, caterwauling. His ears are icy, actual drops of ice forming actual icicles, when he hears Ned emerging. 

He wipes the miserable fear off of his face and puts on a smile. For Ned. For MJ. “They’ve been like this for, like, ten minutes,” he tells them, wide eyed. 

MJ eyes them like they’re scum. “ _ Who’s  _ a plague on our society, again?” she asks Peter, cocking her head towards the anti-mutants rights. 

“Me, apparently,” he mutters. She frowns slightly, moving closer. He darts forward and they hug for a long few minutes, MJ's hair soft and fluffy and brushing his shoulders.

Ned lends Peter his coat. It’s so nice he could cry. 

* * *

Peter can hear everything. A preacher on the corner, four stories above that is a weatherman narrating out the daily forecast. He has to prove himself, he has to prove himself, he has to show  _ everyone _ . Ned and MJ are at a party tonight but that’s not Peter, he’s. Here. Not chasing someone down, or smiling at MJ, who he thinks might be the most impressive girl he’s ever met, or slowly sipping from a red solo cup. 

He hates it. New York at night is not nice. A couple of kids laugh at him as he swings on by. He stops, waves. “Are you shy?” a little girl demands, staring at him. 

“Yeah, sure I am! What kind of extrovert would swing around in a bright red suit?” he jokes. One of the boys screws up his face with a frown. 

“I think you’re cool, then,” the girl insists. He reaches out to high five her and another lines up. Two girls and a boy, cute as a button. 

“You’re cute as a button!” he beams. “How old are you? Six, right?” She nods, eyes wide. 

“How did you know?” 

“My mom says that he ruined our parade.” The little kid’s eyes are suspicious and they see straight through him. 

Peter, for a second, feels absolutely ruined. The whir of a broken radio buzzes at the back of his hand. They can  _ tell _ . He’s ruined, as a hero. “I didn’t ruin that.” 

They can tell he’s breaking at the seams. Losing his  _ mind _ . Peter delicately scratches the knees of the suit. “I think you did.” The words feel like an attack leveled at him. 

It’s worse that it’s a little kid. A grown up, he can shoot out a quip like it’s a web and brush off their, their  _ bigotry _ . A little kid just wants a parade. And Peter, wanting attention, ruined that. His ears drift back to the weather station recording their daily broadcast. The conversation has turned back to mutant rights and Peter’s future. 

He’s going crazy. He’s going  _ crazy _ , tired and lonely and numb. “That’s not very nice, you know,” he scolds, stomach flipping. It feels so fake, it’s- ugh. He takes a deep breath, swinging in front of them, feet sticking tight to the web. “I try very hard!” 

He shoots a web backwards, flipping away from the group. The girl is still shocked he guess her age; the boy is still slightly judgemental. 

He lands on a tree branch swinging over the top of the interstate and whips his mask off. He lays back on the bough, watching cars pass by. Ned texts him. 

He ignores it. 

* * *

“Welcome,” Tony greets him, hanging back and waiting for Peter to walk inside. It’s an inconceivable amount of exhaustion that greets him. ‘How’s the week been?”   
  


“Good,” he says simply. He’s not good. Peter is endlessly frustrated at the fact that he doesn’t want to really patrol. It’s annoying. He’s never not wanted to be Spiderman. The best part of his night has suddenly become going to McDonalds and sitting in the same booth and staring at the walls. Or laying on a branch over the freeway, watching headlights stream across the road like a long river of bright light. 

It’s these in between spaces that he’s begun to appreciate. “Spider man is still looking for attention, I hear,” Tony laughs. 

Peter turns hot red with humiliation. He scratches his head. “Hey, Peter!” Sam greets him. “How’s the attention spree?” 

“Huh?” 

Tony raises his eyebrows. “Haven’t you heard? You saved an older woman from- what was it?” 

  
  
What, do  _ they  _ believe this? Peter’s eyes widen. “Dropping her cane. They got pictures.” 

  
  
“Pretty Useless Spiderman.” The words don’t confuse until he turns back to Tony, like half a beat, half a step behind everyone else. “That’s the latest headline. I’m asking honestly, kid. Do you want me to sue?” 

  
  
Bucky laughs, chucking a blueberry at Tony’s head. It splats on the floor. “He doesn’t want you to sue. It will die down, Peter. I promise.” 

  
Peter smiles tentatively at him, rubbing his jaw. “Yeah! Yeah, I sure hope so!” he squeaks. It’s the most  _ Peter  _ he’s felt in weeks. 

He takes a deep breath, walking on towards the elevator. He doesn’t like keeping shoes on, but he’ll need them in the ‘shop. The floor is extremely shiny, like it’s meant to be a mirror. He sees himself down in there. He looks nice today. Hair all floppy and curly. His shoe skids, though, hits an extra slippery part. 

He lands on his tailbone. “Oof!” It aches already,  _ ow _ . Across the room, Sam is snickering. 

“Damn- dang it, Bucky, you- all of you! Who set this trap?” Tony asks, voice full of cool anger. 

Peter doesn’t even care. Like it’s embarrassing to be seen like this, a big patch of oil or something all over his butt, but all he wants is to get to the lab. “It wasn’t me!” Sam tells them. 

“It’s fine.”   
  


Tony looks at him; hesitates. “I will deal with this later.” He gingerly steps around the spot. 

They enter the ‘shop. The room bursts into blue. “You’re working on homework?” 

“Yeah!” Peter responds. “Anatomy and Biology report on whales.” They have these spouts on the top of their heads, it’s really cool. They can hold their breath for so long, for hours. Kind of like Peter, like he holds it all in for weeks and doesn’t let any spill out. Whales are cool. 

Peter can only focus for so long, and once he finishes the report, he lays his head down on his hand and rests for a moment, focusing inwards. 

“Wake up.” The spiral falling away inside his mind, hypnosis and rock bottom at once, with Tony’s teasing voice. 

Peter is, unfortunately, all the way awake. Carried away by his own mind. “I am awake.” 

“Then what’s gotten into you? Are you feeling okay, Peter?” Tony asks gently. 

Peter nods quickly. “Yeah! Just tired. I patrolled last night, is all.” He holds his breath. Is Tony going to believe him?    
  
“I’ve been there,” he chuckles, ruffling Peter’s hair. “Keep up the good work.” He breezes by to pick up a wrench and fiddle with one of his cars. Peter lets the breath out, rubbing his fingers together. He cannot do a single thing right but this. 

He still has to make up for the mistake in the parade. How is he going to figure  _ that _ out? He’s exhausted. Burnt down to the last bits of wax at the bottom of a candle.

* * *

If Peter is going to get back in good standing, he decides, he’s going to need to prove himself. He hikes through the sludgy New York weather to the top of a building, standing triumphant. He dives off of the roof, swinging into the city’s heart, into Manhattan. He gets noticed most here, even though he’s from Queens and is, by all rights, a Queens hero. The Avengers don’t know that Spider-man is Peter Parker. It’s of paramount importance that that fact remains so, because  _ Peter _ ? Peter would not look good in their eyes. 

He stops a car robbery but he’s so tired in his head that he just sorta  _ splats _ on a rooftop, right next to some pigeon poop and a used needle. The stars are liquid dust and very,  _ very  _ faint. An unpleasant spike of regret falls heavy into his gut. He needs to be out more. Heroing more. The guilt lodges in there as he remembers the night before, when he’d stayed in. 

Every morning Peter reads the paper, something he must’ve picked up from Ben. Even the Spider-man articles, he reads, stomach twisting with guilt. Even more guilt.  _ God _ . He chews on his bottom lip as he pages through the articles, stomach empty. He shovels a couple spoonfuls of cheerios in his mouth anyway. His eyes pass by a fragment of an article about a dead girl. Queens. 

Oh. 

Peter paces the roof, listening. He can hear nearly everything up here. It’s nice. It  _ would  _ be nice if he wasn’t listening for blood spatters. He is just so tired. He’s tired of hearing people talking about Spiderman searching for attention and he’s tired of being sick to his stomach with worry every time he passes a headline. 

The world is a distant spin around him and he- he’s gasping, hands shaking. He vomits, clutching his stomach and blinking quickly as he looks around him. “Peter, I have detected poison in your bloodstream,” Karen tells him. “I am analyzing your symptoms and blood further to pinpoint the specific protein cluster. Within these next few moments, if you pass out, I will be forced to ignore your order not to tell Tony about any injuries you suffer and report directly to him.”

‘Wait-” Peter gasps, eyes watering. 

The roiling mass of pain sticks to his stomach lining, blocking his airways. “Ten seconds until the message is sent,’ Karen informs him. 

Peter falls back, eyes rolling out of his head. Before his eyes truly close, whites visible beneath the eyes of his spider suit, he sees the tough face and stubble of a familiar face. He’s seen them--  _ before _ ….

  
  


“Give me a moment.” 

“Hurry up.” 

“I am! Come on, Marie, give me a break. It’s… 500. Thousand.” 

Peter blinks heavily. The voices seem nice. Maybe they’ll help him, he, he seems to be tied up somewhere. He wriggles slightly, freezing at the burst of pain. His  _ arms _ . A quiet noise emerges from his mouth. Oh, he’s been hurt. 

“I’m excited to get home. How was your girls night? Spend all my money?” 

Her laugh tinkles. It’s a ways away. “You’re the one renting a room at the Ritz.” 

“It’s necessary. And we have the cash, don’t we?” 

“We do,” she laughs in reply. 

“I have champagne, you know. A really nice robe.” 

“Fluffy?”   
  


“Of course. And the beds are heavenly, honey, you’ll have to try them if we come here another time. Did you send the picture?”   
  


“Charlie helped.”

“You know I don’t like Charlie.” Peter heard the frown creasing the man’s deep voice and he struggled to blink, again. Had the couple kidnapped him? That would be, it would be ridiculous.  _ Ow _ . Another hot stab of pain hit his chest. 

“I know you don’t like him, but he’s so useful. You know I don’t like- George, and what’s her name, Deanna. But I let you hang around them.”

“You are the best girl I could ask for.”

Peter moans softly, whimpering. His head tips back .It looks like the RItz. It’s all so bright and golden, glowing like a piece of heaven. He’s scared. “What was that?” If he’s the only ally he has in this place that means he needs to free  _ himself _ . He needs to take care of himself. 

“Kid’s awake.” 

“Check him out, are the restraints tight?” 

The man comes into view. He’s indeed wearing a white, fluffy robe. “I think so.” The man’s hands go to yank at the metal bars connecting Peter’s wrists and ankles. He flinches back. 

He’s off the ground with pain at the next tug. Stupid  _ broken  _ arms. “Hey, how’re you, bud?” the man chuckles. 

“Fine, thanks,’ he slurs out. His tongue is huge, and dry, and thick.  _ Ow _ . “Why are you doing this?”

The man sneers. “Baby, I’ll talk to you later.” The phone turns off. They’re alone in the room. Now. “Give me the courtesy of a name and I can tell you everything,” he says evenly.    
  


Peter just stares. “No,” he murmurs, blinking. His eyes are. Heavy. Again. 

He dreams about whales. 

* * *

The next day is blurry but he manages to make a plan. He’s really hungry, Peter is starving, and he has to make a plan he can actually pull off. He thinks it through, studying the angles of the ceiling and the strength of the restraints. 

In his worst moments, sitting in the corner of that hotel room that’s supposed to be glamorous but has a smear of blood across the floor and a 16 year old boy sitting in the corner, arms broken, he thinks he can’t do it. Their plan is to turn him in to a mutant hater. 

Peter’s plan is to break out. He can figure out how to get the cuffs off and he’s counting on the fact that, that they aren’t counting on the fact that his arms will heal up soon. He cries miserably and the man watches warily. It’s not even putting on a  _ show _ . He’s sad. He wants it to be done. He wants it to be over. “You have no hope now, you know, bud,” the man says. Trying to sympathize. 

Rotten tears continue flowing. “I’m going to save myself,” he insists. He puts it into words but instead of making it real, he reveals it as a fantasy. 

“How?” he laughs, slapping Peter on the shoulder. “You’re not a princess in a high castle, kid. Now what’s your name?”

Peter turns away, hot tears in his eyes. He doesn’t want to hear it. Not from this piece of- piece of crap. He’s going to break the restraints and crawl down the side of the building. Right? Restraints, building. No other part to his plan, just the bare minimum. 

* * *

“Mutants.” Peter wakes up to a kick in the ribs. “You gotta hate them.” 

“You and me both.” He knows that voice. That- that voice is Sam. 

“Wha-” Sam undos the lock on his ankles. Experimentally, Peter’s feet flex. “Thanks.” 

He’s still all drugged and woozy. “Give me a bone here, man, you know that he’s dangerous,” the man that kidnapped him pleads. 

“The boss will be fine with it.” Anxiously, the man wrings his hands and Sam slowly helps Peter up. “Do you have something to fix up his arms?” 

He slowly strokes Peter’s back. It’s gentle and so, so kind, it makes him sway a little. “I can get a splint for you? To set it?” 

“Sounds good.” 

Sam clears his throat, putting on a face. Peter can’t help but smile slightly, at the ridiculous sight of such a serious, sneering Sam Wilson. It’s not in him to be mean to a fly, let alone Peter. Bucky gets the brunt of that and it’s more of a ridiculous rivalry than anything. “The cuffs are still electrified if you’re worried about him,” the man muses idly. Peter cringes, scowling. 

“I know. Remote?” The man nods, slapping his head. 

“I’m so dumb.” 

The remote changes hands. “This is the only copy?” Sam checks. 

“Yeah.” 

Sam smiles viciously. “Good.” He punches out and  _ decks him _ . Peter is momentarily struck by surprise. Sam advances on him further, eyes angry. “What kind of monster kicks a kid awake? What kind of monster does this?” 

  
  
For all his earlier confidence and general… evil demeanor he’s weak when it comes to fighting. “You’re the one working for HYDRA!” he spits, gagging up blood. Peter backs away, keeping his arms as still as possible. He can’t pick up the remote on the ground like this, so he resorts to guarding it, woozy and off balance. 

The door cracks open down the middle, slamming to pieces. It’s a group of guards, actual ones, that look far too strong to be normal security guards. Even for the Ritz. Sam has finished with the guy on the floor. “Hey!” Peter rasps as one of the guards dives for him, backing away. 

He twists, a second too slow, just like  _ always _ , why can’t he be like he used to? Full of quips and jokes and smart things to rattle off, fast to move and faster to strike. A deadly spider and not a shaky teenager. Sam takes on two at once and Peter backs farther and farther away. The lock on the wrist cuffs snap. 

He looks up into the eyes of whatever four- oh God,  _ five _ \- guards that are supposed to snatch him. One takes him out by the legs, forcing his head down to the ground. “Avengers Assemble!”

The shield’s familiar swing catches all of them off guard, him and the attackers. Steve’s gotten two of them.

Peter stares before he’s gathered neatly in Sam’s arms and they burst back through the doors, into the hallway. Sam lands on bent knee, wings folding back. “Your arms must hurt like hell,” he pants, squinting at Peter. 

Peter laughs slowly. “Yeah, they do.” They’re aching, and straining like they’re going to pop out of his elbows. 

“Elevator. We’ve got medics waiting downstairs. Tony’s worried sick.” Peter makes a face. He’d rather not- 

“Kid! Peter!” Tony shouts. He’s freed from Sam’s arms in a second and gathered into Tony’s. 

Peter is strong and everything. He’s gotten used to the typical night out involving things that no one wants to hear about, that he doesn’t want to talk about. His eyes are dry. It just makes him feel bad, too, that he can’t even gather up the energy or the emotion to cry his eyes out. It’s not right. “Tony,” he says, wincing. 

“He’s hurt.” Peter glances to the side, where all the energy gathered into the room is palpable, a frothing mass of reporters outside, like they’re waiting to tear him to pieces, and a group of medics with their serious faces on, waiting, just waiting, for him to say  _ I’m hurt _ . 

“My arms are broken,” he groans, spitting the words out through gritted teeth. A flash of pain descending on him makes him clench his jaw that much harder. His lips are gross and chapped. A second too late, blood washes into his mouth from where his teeth clamped down on his cheek. 

“Holy fucking-”

The world. It blacks out. 

* * *

“Good as new, huh?” Tony asks him while they’re waiting for May in the hospital. 

“He’s tough,” Sam replies wryly. 

Peter slowly sits up on his elbows, making a face. “Ow. Dr. Cho’s Cradle is a miracle.” The words feel just a second too late, but he can chalk it up to the drugs if they ask. In fact, they’ve probably already done that. 

“It is indeed. I’ll pass along the knowledge, of course,” Tony agrees. “Your aunt’s arriving in T-minus ten minutes-” 

“What was that? You’re not an astronaut, Stark, you’re-”

“I am a superhero and a genius, Sam, I can do whatever the hell I want.” 

Peter laughs in a low voice. Beneath the blanket his hands are actually  _ shaking _ , what’s going  _ on _ ? He hadn’t even felt this bad after the Vulture. The Vulture had kickstarted  _ this _ \- this awful crushing emptiness in his chest. “May’ll be here in ten minutes?”

“Yeah.” Tony’s face softens. “You look like you’ve come out okay on the other side.” Slowly, Peter nods. 

Physically, he feels fine. 

* * *

If his mind is a library, Peter thinks it would be like. A destroyed one. Lost memories, records he can’t even get, the name of his second grade teacher and what his parents looked like, floating in some sewer canal. An ashy corridor where he keeps his memories of Ben. He spent a long time- like at least ten months- burning it to the ground because it was so hard to remember. All the memories are tainted now. 

If his mind was a library, this would be the section everyone forgets about. He’s been sitting in bed for a week straight, recovering and everything. Awkwardly accepting May’s offer of help and medication.  _ God _ . 

He needs to get away. Peter breaks off, drifting like an iceberg, through the kitchen. He sips from the straw in front of him. There’s a big glass of water set out in front of the fridge for him to drink from, with a straw and everything so he doesn’t have to worry about picking it up. He’s craving fries. 

Ten minutes and a short walk later, he finds himself in the same McDonald’s. The cashier looks at him askance, he has broken arms and a rather large bruise stretching up out of his shirt. Peter shifts back, uncomfortable, and asks for fries. Milkshake. 

It’s just like every other night he’s spent here before. They are all interchangeable. He squints, staring up at the ceiling. Ha, they’re even playing the same music. 

“Pete?” 

Peter whips around. Mr. Stark is standing there, concerned look on his face. At least he  _ thinks _ it is. There’s some kind of disguise on his face. “You got a little something, right here,” he teases, nodding to the ridiculous hairy eyebrows Tony is wearing. 

“It’s midnight, Peter, what are you doing all the way out here?” Peter freezes, looking at his phone. He’d left at nine. How much of the night is just. Gone? “Meeting up with a secret girlfriend?” Tony goes on, raising his eyebrows playfully. 

Peter isn’t doing. Anything. Like it feels like it could be a big conspiracy, the way Spider-man was but he’s just sitting here, watching the world move around him, pressed into his booth and listening to the same recycled pop, over and over and over. “Just wanted fries, I guess.” 

Tony looks at him again, obviously wanting to say something. “Peter, are you…” He clears his throat. “Are you okay?” 

He wants to reply,  _ yes, I’m fine, I’m fine, _ but there’s a tumultuous knot sitting in his throat clogging his words and he just kind of. Stares at the milkshake instead. “Uh.”

“Eloquent,” Tony chuckles. Peter smiles weakly. 

“I’m fine,” he spits out eventually. 

“Your aunt was worried you’d gone out to, you know,” he says, making an exaggerated web shooting motion with his hands. Peter shoves him, looking around, and Tony bursts into laughter. 

“I’m not a- a masochist!”

Tony eyes his arms. “I know, kid.” They sit in silence. Oh God. Tony is gearing up to a speech. “All superheroes get burnt out sometimes.” 

Peter lets out a sigh. “I know.” 

Tony gently rubs at his back. “All of us. But I think-  _ I  _ think this is something bigger. May does, too.” 

  
  
It’s very nice. Peter’s just so cold and like, like dreary lately that it’s kind of nice to have Mr. Stark sitting there next to him. “Okay,” he agrees. “I- um, you might be right.” 

* * *

  
  


Whales have to breach the surface for water every so often. And, as it turns out, Mr. Stark is good for things like finding a psychiatrist and setting up an appointment for him and May to talk things out, and Ned is more than happy to fill the empty seas of Peter with conversation when he's depressed. 

**Author's Note:**

> comment or kudos if you liked!! I would appreciate it! and if you want more irondad content (plus stevetony!) my blog is called [jean-and-diet-coke](https://jean-and-diet-coke.tumblr.com/)


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